


Upon a Pale Horse

by Shivaliszt



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Dark Ages, F/M, Multi, One Shot, Pre-City Age, new light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shivaliszt/pseuds/Shivaliszt
Summary: The era of the Warlords was one of savagery. With no one else to protect humanity, the first of the Risen did what they could. But who could protect the Risen from the tyrants among themselves?Before the Iron Lords could break the brutal grip of the Warlords upon the earth, the first of the Risen had to learn what it meant to be a Risen, and choose for themselves which path to follow.One Shot.
Kudos: 2





	Upon a Pale Horse

The first time that she was resurrected, she had a panic attack. To be fair, she liked to think that anyone who woke up for the first time in the dark with no memory, in a dank, rusting ruin of a building with water dripping everywhere, and a little bobbling lit up machine yelling at you, you would have a panic attack too. To her credit, Finch had apologized for getting so excited – it had been searching for its Chosen for a long, long time.

Finch had refused to tell her his name, insisting that ghosts didn’t get a name until they met their Chosen, and that it was her job to choose one. It had taken her a while to choose the name, but it came to her as she saw a little red-faced bird flitting around outside, hopping here and there searching for seeds to eat. The bobbing and flitting of her ghost reminded her of the little bird, and so she settled on the name Finch.

The Risen had searched the ruins of the building that Finch had resurrected her in for several days, trying furiously to find some evidence to who she had been before. Finch had bobbed after her the entire time, trying his best to scan the ruins along with her to find any possible evidence, healing any cuts and injuries she got while moving aside sharp rusty metal and blocks of concrete, and filling her in the whole while on what the world looked like now. Overrun with aliens with needle-sharp that wanted nothing more than a tasty snack of human flesh, was what it sounded like to the woman.

Finally, she had to conclude that the place must have just been the location that she died in and didn’t contain any evidence as to who she used to be. Sitting down and stuffing a makeshift bag fashioned out of some cloth and wire with pieces of scavenged tech and tools that the ghost had insisted would be valuable to trade for glimmer, Finch said that she had to have a name of some kind, insisting, saying that he couldn’t float around just calling her _Chosen_.

She felt pretentious, naming herself. It felt like a privilege that at once was hers alone but belonged to someone else. Maybe it was because she used to have a name, once upon a time. That name was lost now, though, even to herself. Nonetheless, she sat cross-legged, making sure the bag was properly made and wouldn’t rip or tear, and threw names out there into the open. Hannah, Vera, Ulya, and many others were all rejected by her bobbing ghost. At last, she settled on the name Sigrid. It didn’t feel comfortable, but it also didn’t feel _un_ comfortable.

Standing and brushing the dust from her clothes, Sigrid remarked that she was hungry and there was no food around to eat.

Finch had agreed glumly and noted that Sigrid had neither weapons nor armor to protect her from the outside elements. There wasn’t anything they could do about that, but Finch pulled up a map of the nearest settlements, projecting it in front of Sigrid to see. A few settlements looked promising, and Finch recommended they make for the nearest one, which was some miles away.

.

A few days later, after sneaking past a few of the chittering, sharp-toothed aliens that Finch had called “Fallen,” the ghost and his Chosen came across an abandoned campsite. Well, it was abandoned by the mere fact that the inhabitants were dead – their nearby rotting corpses and the pockmarks on the stone walls around the site indicated that they had probably been in a gunfight.

“Dead at least a week,” Finch pronounced.

Sigrid vomited into the bushes twice before she summoned enough courage to rifle through campsite and scavenge whatever she could. She had given the bodies a wide berth, electing to let Finch pick over the actual bodies for anything useful. A single sidearm and a scant bit of ammo.

She still took the packs, sleeping rolls, and other supplies that she could. She carefully transferred her own scavenged tech into the much sturdier pack, discarding her makeshift bag. Whoever had killed them had already taken their ammo and food.

Sigrid was very hungry.

.

Salvation was found several days later when Sigrid stumbled into a settlement. The buildings were broken and some half-crumbling, but plenty had been rebuilt. There was contrast between old stone, and newly laid brick, and poured cement. Steel that had been repurposed provided the bones for many of the other structures. The town’s inhabitants cast the Risen woman wary, unfavorable glances. They weren’t starving, but they were obviously not overflowing with an abundance of resources. Gaunt cheeks and sunken, wary eyes hidden behind long stringy hair stared back at Sigrid as she passed by. Finch wisely hid inside the pack Sigrid had scavenged, both of them judging that it was better for Finch to lie low.

Sigrid bartered what little supplies she had scavenged in exchange for some glimmer and a hot soup made of potatoes, chickpeas, and a few scant pieces of meat and a piece of hot bread at the local inn. It was possibly the best thing that Sigrid had ever tasted in her life. The few berries she had picked off bushes and eaten didn’t count, especially since some of them had turned out to be poisonous. That had ended with Finch’s second attempt at resurrection.

The innkeeper that brought her food frowned at Sigrid’s rabid table manners. She had barely kept it together long enough for him to set the bowl in front of her.

“You had better clear out soon,” he said, his beard bristling.

Sigrid swallowed a chunk of potato, its scalding hot temperature burning its way down her throat to her stomach. She barely noticed the pain.

“What?” She squawked, undignified.

“You need to leave,” he repeated himself, not as aggressive this time. “He’s probably already heard that you’re here. You need to clear out quick, before he decides you’re occupying his territory and kills you.”

Sigrid blinked once. Twice. “I’m sorry, but who is _he_?”

Now it was the inkeep’s turn to be taken aback. “You mean you don’t – you’re not –” he faltered. “The _Warlord_.” Inside of her pack, Sigrid felt a buzzing from Finch, like they were vibrating nervously.

For the first time, Sigrid became aware that unlike the other people in the inn, eating at their tables, that she wasn’t quite like them. They were skinny, sinewy, with scars littering their arms and hands, sun damage on their faces. Sigrid was – well, healthy. And unblemished. Her hands were calloused, sure, but she lacked the heavy scarring that would come with years of working with one’s hands. She didn’t have any scars at all. And her skin certainly wasn’t sun damaged.

“He’ll kill you just as soon as look at you, girl,” the innkeep said quietly. “You need to leave as soon as you’re done with your meal.” And with that, he grabbed his rag and moved on, cleaning other tables.

“That was odd,” Sigrid muttered to herself and Finch, still hidden in her pack. She finished her bowl more slowly, letting the vegetable chunks cool enough to properly swallow. She could already feel her tastebuds stiffening and becoming rough from where the first chunk of hot potato had touched.

The innkeep’s wife was more willing to barter with Sigrid, exchanging some dry rations for some more of the tech that Sigrid had found in the ruins she was resurrected in, which Sigrid stuffed into the pack. The innkeep bustled around in the back, casting glances at Sigrid that made her uncomfortable.

“C’mon, Finch. Let’s go,” She muttered when she had put the rations in the pack.

She hadn’t been much more than forty paces from the door of the inn when a bullet ripped through her forehead and caused her fourth death.

The watchers outside scattered for cover.

Finch brought her back in a scatter of light, and she scrambled for cover which was so desperately far away. Two more bullets ripped through her chest, causing a burning sensation, and causing her fifth death.

And her sixth.

She made it to cover just as a hail of bullets peppered the wall around her, one ripping through the flesh of her thigh, causing blood to come spurting out, spraying the wall and her clothes in scarlet. Finch winked into existence and in a quick flash of light, healed it.

“I think it’s safe to say,” Finch bobbed down closer to Sigrid and took cover under her torso, “ _that’s_ the Warlord.”

“Ya think?” Sigrid removed the clip from her sidearm, counting the bullets. Seven.

“He’s up there, on top of that ridge.”

Sigrid poked her head up to see where exactly Finch was talking about.

The ghost resurrected Sigrid in another burst of light seconds later.

“Goddammnit,” Sigrid cursed, rubbing at a phantom pain in her cheek. Blood sprays painted the wall behind her. The Warlord was definitely on that ridge, and his aim was pretty good, too. “What the fuck kind of world did you bring me into, Finch?”

“I’m sorry,” the ghost fretted. “I didn’t know there was a warlord in this region.”

Sigrid growled and looked around for a way out. She was pinned down behind a small concrete wall attached to a house, and the angle that the Warlord on the ridge had on her, meant that she could barely move even a few feet without exposing herself. She had barely a little triangle of safety.

“He can’t stay up there forever,” Sigrid decided and pulled her knees up close to her chest.

Once or twice over the next hour, she would wave a hand or poke a toe out from cover. He missed the first few times, but Finch did have to replace her two largest toes of her right foot that was blasted off.

“I didn’t even do anything,” Sigrid grumbled to Finch, her back against the wall. “I just bought a bowl of food. Why is he so pissed off?”

“Warlords are pretty territorial,” the ghost explained apologetically. “Not everyone who gets Chosen by a ghost and blessed with the Traveler’s Light decides to do good things with that Light.”

“Guess not,” Sigrid muttered.

The only warning the Risen got that there was someone around the corner was the crunch of gravel. She barely had time to raise her sidearm and aim before someone rounded the corner, a rifle trained on her. She squeezed the trigger, and managed to fire off three rounds, one going wide and the other two pinging off the massive pauldrons the assailant wore. Their response was to fire a burst of rounds into Sigrid’s right shoulder. She dropped the sidearm onto the ground and grabbed at her wounded shoulder with her left hand in a groan of pain. Blood gushed between her fingers.

Finch blinked into existence, ready to heal her shoulder.

“No, Finch,” she cried, as the gunman trained his weapon now on Finch.

“Rookie mistake, ghost,” the gunman said in a deep voice. “You, get up,” he nodded his head at her.

Sigrid gritted her teeth and attempted to get up. She fell down onto her knees once before managing to actually stand. Finch made to help but the gunman fired a warning shot that whistled just an inch away from his shell, freezing the ghost in place in a scared shiver. Between them off to the right, Sigrid saw a figure stand up on the ridge, a rifle in their hands.

Sigrid closed her eyes in defeat. Two of them – she didn’t stand a chance. She couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped her lips, the burning in her shoulder was too much. Blood steadily dripped from her fingertips, creating a small puddle of red in the dust.

“Move. Now,” he commanded, never taking his eyes off of Finch. He wore grey and red armor with massive pauldrons on his shoulders that made him seem far larger than he was. Not that he needed it to tower over Sigrid – he was at least a foot taller than she was. His helmet exposed his dark eyes, mask not quite covering his entire face.

Stumbling forward, Sigrid obeyed, more worried about what he would do to Finch if she didn’t do as he ordered.

The gunman marched Sigrid out of the town, into the surrounding hills up a winding narrow dirt road. Behind her, she could hear the sniper that had killed her several times speaking softly with the gunman though she couldn’t make out the words. Ahead of Sigrid floated Finch who spoke encouragingly to her whenever she stumbled or fell. Sigrid’s vision was going hazy, she couldn’t quite see straight, and her balance felt off. Up ahead, she could make out an outpost. Or a fortress, of some kind. A battery of Golden-Age guns were mounted on the roof of the outpost. Blood had soaked through her shirt and the bleeding still hadn’t stopped though it had lessened.

A gnarled tree root that she hadn’t seen tripped Sigrid and she fell to the ground again in a painful collapse. Behind her she heard jeers from the gunmen and then nothing.

.

Sigrid woke in a cold, dark stone room. She was lying on a cot with a thin blanket thrown over her. Immediately she grabbed at her shoulder. It was whole, no wounds.

“Finch?” She called out. “Finch, where are you?” She cast aside the blanket and stood, searching the room for anything she could use. The room was bare save for the cot and a small table next to it.

The door to the room was locked. Sigrid pushed on it and it rattled but didn’t move. Locked from the outside. The hinges were also on the outside, she noticed.

“Okay, Sigrid, think,” she muttered. “Think, think, think.” She circled and glanced around the room. Outside the sky had only a bit of light. Either early morning or late dusk. Dusk, she guessed, but she couldn’t be sure which direction was north.

She walked back to the door and pressed her ear to it. Not a sound on the other side.

Here goes nothing, she thought and hurled herself bodily at it, shoulder first. Sigrid bounced once, twice, and then a third time off of the solid wood. She shook and flexed her arm to work out the stiffness from the impact and then prepared to charge it a third time.

Only to scream when a man literally popped into existence in front of her in a flash of purple light.

Sigrid took a step backward at the sight of him. He was easily taller than her, wearing long black robes with golden embroidery over his armor. His cold blue eyes glowered down at Sigrid.

“Where’s my ghost?” she demanded.

“Your ghost is fine, Baby Light,” he drawled. “Now, come with me.” In a blink he was gone again. The lock on the door clicked open and the door swung open, with the man on the other side. “Come, now,” he repeated.

Warily, Sigrid followed. The blue-eyed man led her down several corridors and up several flights of stairs. He didn’t speak the entire time, and neither did she. His boots were in good condition, she noted, and his clothes were clean, and in good shape. The building was made of concrete, with mostly steel doors, though a few were made of solid wood. Here and there it was obvious that the walls had been patched and repaired.

Finally, he led her to a room with several other men. Two of whom Sigrid recognized as the gunmen who had killed her multiple times in the town.

“You,” she hissed at the shorter one who had head-shotted her multiple times.

“Calm down, Baby Light,” the blue-eyed one ordered, shoving her shoulder to reinforce the point.

“Sigrid,” cried a familiar voice and Finch bobbed toward her from behind the men.

She threw out her hands and caught his little frame in them. “Finch, what did they do to you?” His shell was different now. It had been bright silver and shaped like several triangles orbiting a central core. But now, it was different, with several additional pieces fused on, black marks showing evidence where soldering had taken place, with several seams rippled and jagged and wires connecting pieces. 

“You ‘rezzed in Lord Jaal’s territory. That means you belong to him now,” stated one of the men, who polished a rifle near the window. “Your ghost's shell is rigged with explosives. Lord Jaal has the detonator. Piss him off? No more ghost. No more lives.”

Sigrid paled, and Finch wilted. “I’m sorry Sigrid, I tried to stop them,” he whispered, almost to quietly for her to hear.

She clutched the ghost’s shell close to her chest. “It’s not your fault, Finch,” she whispered in a shaking voice.

The man cleaning his rifle stood. “Name’s Martin.” He stuck his hand out for Sigrid to shake. She took it tentatively and pumped it once.

Above his shoulder, a ghost popped into existence. “And mine’s Anna,” chirped a female voice.

“This is Finch,” Sigrid introduced her ghost, “and I’m Sigrid.”

“Anduin,” introduced the large man who had held Sigrid at gunpoint and shot her in the shoulder. Another ghost, this one’s shell painted a canary yellow, materialized behind him and bobbed a nod at her, but didn’t introduce itself.

“Isen,” said the blue-eyed man who had brought Sigrid into the room with a nod, busying himself already with some datapads.

“They’re all Risen,” whispered Finch.

“You all follow Lord Jaal,” questioned Sigrid.

“You do now, too,” responded Isen. “He’s a good leader. You won’t go hungry. You’ll have to learn how to shoot better, though. That was a pathetic showing in the village.”

His ghost floated up from where it had been resting on the table. “You’ll have to get much quicker, too,” it chastised Finch. “You should be able to rez your Chosen in half the time it took you.”

“I’m new at this,” Finch defended.

“You’ll learn,” replied the ghost firmly. Sigrid didn’t like the sound of that one.

Anduin clapped Sigrid on the shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you around.” Once they were out of earshot of the others, he gave her a sympathetic glance. “It gets better. First few years are the worst. You’ll learn.”

She shot him an inquisitive look. “How long have you been –”

“Alive? About ten years now,” he cut her off. “It gets better,” he repeated. “You’ll learn how to use your Light, your ghost will figure more things out. Transmatting, resurrecting faster, it gets easier.”

Finch’s harumph echoed Sigrid’s sentiment. She didn’t think so either.


End file.
